A few days later Drury met him and asked him again where the duck had fallen.
"I can't find it where you said," he said.
"You ain't been lookin' for it, have you?"
"Yes, for days."
"What'd you do if you found it?" Crosson asked.
"Kill it," Drury answered. It was a most unexpectable phrase from him.
"That sounds funny, comin' from you," Crosson snickered. Then he spoke gruffly to conceal his own misgivings. "Aw, it's dead long ago."
"I'd feel better if I was sure," said Drury.
Crosson called him a natural-born idiot, but the next day Crosson himself was across the river, dragged by a queer mood. He took his bearings from the spot where he had fired his shot-gun and then made toward the place where the duck fell.
He stumbled about in slime and snarl for an hour in vain. Suddenly he was startled by the sound of something floundering through the reeds. He was afraid that it might be a wild animal, a traditional bear or a big dog. But it was Drury Boldin. And Irene Straley was with him.